


Saudade

by CabiriaMinerva



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Angst, Endings, Grief/Mourning, I mean it: a lot of angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss, M/M, Peaches and Plums (The Magicians), Proof of Concept (The Magicians), Survivor Guilt, Whitespires Armory, missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva
Summary: [Post S05E13: Fillory and Further]Every chapter, every story must end. It is as natural as life and death. So now that all of his friends are gone, Eliot is left alone to face what remains in the aftermath of yet another loss.
Relationships: Alice Quinn & Eliot Waugh, Charlton/Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Rupert Chatwin/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> Saudade: a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which has been lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never really return. It was once described as the love that remains or the love that stays after someone is gone.
> 
> \--  
> This fanfiction has been inspired by Whitespire Armory's prompt on tumblr: endings.

When can I say your name and have it mean only your name

and not what you left behind?

Ocean Vuong, _On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous_

Eliot has never been able to just let go. Even when he was a child, he had always hold on to every little thing: all the cruel things his father and siblings had hissed at him, all the times his mother had withdrawn her hand seconds before giving him the comfort of her touch, all the guilt he had piled up inside. For Logan, for Taylor, for being who he was.

And of course, it wasn't all bad. But the good things, the things that made his chest fill with warmth, that made a spark of hope appear in the meanderings of his soul, didn't usually last very long. Besides, those have always been the worst. Because if you can't let go of the bad stuff, how are you supposed to let go of the nice things, of the moments you felt butterflies fluttering in your stomach, laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes, held someone you cared about in your arms?

So you can see why, now, he has decided that he just can't do that any more.

_Feeling._

It simply hurts too much. _Well,_ it's not that he has stopped feeling on purpose. It's more as if something inside of him, something fundamental, has broken. And could you blame him, if you knew all the things he has lost?

Of course he is aware that everything must come to an end, but why _–_ _why?_ _–_ does it have to be so painful? And why couldn't he have something, just one good thing ? Just a little longer?

_You're a freak, a disappointment. You disgust me. I'll beat the sin out of you._

_Pansy._

_Fag._

His father's voice resonates in his minds, reminding him why he doesn't deserve nice things. Love. Affection.

Still, maybe faith could have been more generous with him? Maybe if he hadn't had anything, he wouldn't feel so exhausted and utterly defeated. Or was that part of his punishment? To let him taste happiness, love, whatever you want to call that... and then taking it away, letting him helplessly watch it as it ends tragically while he survives everything, every fucking thing, and gets to live on mourning all the things that could have been but never were, the memories of what has been haunting him relentlessly.

But now he has reached a point where he doesn't even care.

No, that is incorrect. He does care, he cares so much that at night, when he's asleep and all his defences are down, his demons climb over the wall of apathy in which he is hiding and feeds on him. In those moments, he can feel his battered heart falling apart in his chest, a silent scream filling the void that has swallowed him.

Panic attacks. That's what Professor Lipson told him a few months ago, her voice soft and understanding. It's pretty common after a trauma.

_Trauma._

Yeah, you could call his life that. A fucking, never-endi ng trauma. Funnily enough, the one thing he has so many times wished would end, is still there. His disaster of a life. Cracked, gutted, broken. But still there. He drags it, forward, he supposes. Another hour. Another day. Another week.

How many months since the day Margo and almost all of his friends have disappeared into thin air?

Four. _Five._

He misses Margo. His Bambi. Sometimes he still turns and opens his mouth as if to tell her something witty and funny or maybe just a bitter remark. Then he remembers. He wonders where she is, if she still is. Did they really create another world?

Probably yes.

He also wonders... what if I had helped them cast the spell? He imagines a new Fillory, forests more luxuriant than ever, a sea of a blue so clear it almost blends into the sky. He can almost feel her hand in his, her laughter, the scent of her hair in his nostril as he kisses it.

And sometimes he wonders... what if she was still here? She would have laughed so hard when Fogg had asked him to become a faculty member. _Eliot a professor? Are you out of your fucking mind?_ They would have found a nice place together (probably Josh and Fen would have tagged along), possibly in the city. Surely in the city. He snorts thinking about the time they had decided they would manage a B&B. Them. Managing a B&B.

A students looks up from his exam, probably disturbed by his snort, but he just beckons him to go back to his exercise.

He is trying to imagine Margo coming back home after a long day at her CEO work (because of course, nothing less for his Bambi), cuddling up with him and a bottle of champagne on their immaculate couch. His fingers in her long hair, a small smile on his lips...

Eliot feels like someone just punched the air out of his lungs. He squeezes his eyes closed and forces himself to stop, just stop, please. Because for a moment, there, he has felt. And he doesn't want to, because feeling is too much, too painful. Whatever was, whatever could have been... simply isn't. All good things come to an end, after all, right? And so he forces his brain to focus on the class and falls back into his armour of apathy. Because no good could come from all that.

That night, when he's finally alone in his room, in a building not far from the Cottage where he had once been a king among his peers, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, his tie loose and a bottle of Scotch in his hand, his mind still lingers on his friends. It's not as bad as it is in the middle of the night, when he wakes up in a cold sweat and the cold fingers of panic clenches around his heart. It's more like a small voice in the back of his head, finding the courage to speak up in the alcohol that freely slides down his throat.

(Even his composure has ended, at some point. Not that now he is dull or shabby, but he is somehow less dignified, drinking straight from the bottle, his hair in dire need of a shower after yet another long day spent watching nameless faces.)

What would Alice say, seeing him like this? Of course, they hadn't started with the right foot (and had kept at a good distance for a long while), but after...

Eliot swallows. He doesn't even want to think about _his_ name.

He gulps down another long, strong sip.

Because if he even thinks about it...

No.

The bottle reaches his lips, and with a frown Eliot realises it's empty. If his feet weren't numb, he would get up and find another one, but they are, and he really doesn't want to fall face down on the floor. Again.

Last time he had then proceeded to fall asleep and Charlton had almost had a heart attack when he had found him like that, hours later.

Ah, Charlton. Good, pure, willing Charlton. On more than one occasion he has buried himself in him, drunk his scent instead of the Whiskey and the Scotch and the Vodka that now more than ever are his most loyal companions. He has run his finger through his short hair, bitten the soft skin on his neck, leaving a mark. Then he has held him through many nights, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Eliot likes Charlton. He really does. He likes the way he moans and writhes under his touch, the way he begs him, the way he murmurs sweet nothings when they're worn out. He also likes when he insists on going on a walk, chattering about his day, getting excited for the tiniest things.

He likes him and cares for him, but...

Licking his dry lips, Eliot feels guilty, wishing he could feel something more for Charlton, wishing he could be enough to fill the void that is eating him, to warm the chill sorrow that has now become his new normal.

To some extent, Charlton reminds him of... NO!

He will not think about his name. About him.

Because if he does...

Squeezing his eyes, Eliot stretches out his arms, feeling the floor around him. Hopefully, he'll be able to climb on his bed and pass out there. His back would be grateful.

Stumbling through his movements, he somehow lands on the bed. In the back of his head, he thinks that he should probably tuck himself under the sheets (is it cold? He isn't sure), but all the energies he had left went to the climbing-on-the-bed business.

He doesn't even notice when he blacks out. But he notices when he wakes up with a start, hours later. In spite of the alcohol in his system, he is dreaming. Is he dreaming of Charlton, of his mouth moving on his body like a starved man moves towards a banquet? His body tingles and his hand slids down, even in his sleep, sneaking into his pants, softly brushing the velvety skin... in his dream, the head moving down his body has now shorter hair, dark and grey. The shoulder beneath it are broader and he can see the lines of his strong muscles.

_Seb._

He absent-mindedly thinks that it's strange, and wasn't it Charlton licking and sucking, nipping the stretched skin on his hip? Not that he minds. On the contrary, he quite likes the feeling of Seb's hands on his chest, moving slowly on his waist, then... But wait, this isn't possible. Seb is gone.

This is how he startles awake, panting, pulling back his hand from his trousers as if it had just touched something scalding. Guilt floods him as his breathing steadies.

Turning his head ever so slightly, Eliot checks the time. It's just after 2 in the morning and his room is plunged into darkness. As his brain struggles to catch up, Eliot winces, pained. Seb. The broken, mourning man he has left to die in Fillory. The man everyone only saw as a threat, a danger, but whom he cared about. And still, he has abandoned him.

His rational mind knows it's not his fault: Seb had made his (shitty) decisions. But his heart aches a little thinking about what could have been, if only... if only they had found a way to heal their broken hearts, together. If only he had found another way. If only. But ifs don't change the past. And so Seb is gone, almost certainly dead. Eliot hopes he has finally found some peace, although he wishes they had more time. Would they have fallen in love? He thinks he might have.

Tightening his fingers between his curls, he forces himself to focus on the light filtering through the shutters. Seb is gone, and with him everything that could have been.

And what good is it to keep remembering all the chapters of his life that have ended, all the things and people that he has lost? Remembering won't bring them back, will it?

But it is just after 2 in the morning and his brain is still a bit fuzzy with sleep, his defences are down. It's the moment of the day (well, night) that he fears the most.

Everyone he has ever lost crowds his thoughts. Margo. Alice. Seb. Fen. Even Josh.

 _Quentin_.

Eliot feels like he might throw up (and maybe okay, drinking the whole bottle of Scotch right after two bottles of wine wasn't such a great idea after all, but what's done is done). Clenching the sheets in his fists, he tries to vanish his thoughts, praying for sleep.

But as said, it is just after 2 in the morning, his brain is clouded and he is helpless.

_A shy smile, fingers nervously tucking floppy hair behind his ears._

_A laughter, pure and joyful, resonating in the Cottage._

_A casual touch, his heart singing._

_A silver crown in his hands, arms around Eliot._

_The warmth of his embrace._

_Soft lips brushing against his skin._

_A moan breaking the silence of a Fillorian night._

_Fingers digging into his back._

_His name falling from the pinkest lips he has ever kissed._

_Peaches. Peaches and plums._

_So much love offered like a gift he never thought he could deserve, and so much fear making him waver._

_Hope. Soft lips. Darkness. Guilt. Regrets. And despair._

_It all comes rushing back as soon as_ _his_ _names finds its way to Eliot's mind, to his lips._

_Q._

Eliot stares at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity.

_Q._

Would he... would he have taken him back, had he not died? Had he found the courage to tell him, to show him that he was finally ready to accept everything he had refused the first time Quentin had offered it? And... would he have died if he had told him?

_50 years, who gets proof of concept like that?_

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker._

What if he had said what he truly wanted to say.

_It's me, it's Eliot. I'm alive in there._

_I love you._

Was it his fault Quentin died?

It probably was.

Eliot feels the tears running down his temples, falling on his hair.

If he had just... done things differently. But he cannot go back in time and change what has been. And Quentin has died and won't come back (funny, how magic could help you do miraculous things, even bring people back from the dead. Except Quentin). The second best thing that had ever happened to him (the first being Margo, and we know already how that ended) hasn't simply ended. It has vanished into nothingness, utterly destroyed with a violence whose aftermath still lingers in everything Eliot does, in the very air that he breathes.

He just can't find the strength to go out there, try something, anything! To hope that something good could still come his way. His father would be happy, he thinks with a snort.

Everything I touch turns to ashes .

Eliot rolls into a ball, clutching his knees to his chest, silent sobs racking his body.

 _Everything ends,_ he vaguely thinks while he is finally dozing off, exhausted _,_ _maybe one day the pain will too._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My stories are more often than not quite angst-y, but this time I almost feel guilty... I love El and I wish with all my heart that wherever he still lives on, he is happy and loved. But the prompt for this was "endings", and the story just... unfolded.  
> If it's worth something, in my other fanfics I'm actually trying to give Eliot some kind of happy ending (after a lot of angst, obviously)? I'm sorry Eliot, I swear it's a one-time thing (I hope).  
> Anyway, I hope you won't hate me too much 🖤 And in case you want say hi, chat or whatever, look me up on tumblr or twitter (I'm cabiriaminerva on almost every social) :)


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